


The Stone

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: Futurefic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-24
Updated: 2004-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-01 07:56:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/354063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist





	The Stone

## The Stone

by Prudence Worth

[]()

* * *

For D and D... Thank you. 

A writing exercise in the rough. I'm learning...slowly. 

* * *

The Stone 

It is smooth in his hand. 

Round and cool to the touch. 

Worn from eons of angry river water and twenty years of contemplative musings. Transformed into a token worry bead and all-purpose rosary. 

His prayers are poured into this small piece of simple gray rock, along with a host of fears, and a millennia of secrets. Serving as confessional, and de facto higher power whenever he rubs it between his forefinger and thumb. 

It was there with him at his midwifing on the banks of his beginning and mostly likely will be with him in the silence of his end. 

It represents all that came before. 

When there was still hope. 

Possibilities. 

And the world turned on the gaze of a young man with green eyes. 

Hard to believe those things existed once upon a time, and a continent away. 

Sentimental fool. 

He laughs at himself over this small, insignificant Obsession...a chunk of rock of all things...hiding among his much larger psychoses. 

Convinced himself that this piece of his past matches everything in his closet. 

Even during the long pain of Belle Reve, when he kept it hidden from prying eyes and inquisitive fingers. They just never would have guessed where. A hard, comforting, truth enveloped in his body, rubbing away the pain and loss. 

It's Sunday morning in Paris. 

He sits at the Le Rendez-Vous des Belges, a small, intimate, cafe on the rue de Dunkerque, sipping his kah-wa and nibbling on pieces of fresh brioche. Indulges himself in the French papers, and the Paris Match he pretends is not hiding at the bottom of the stack. Just to see which socialite of the week he's supposedly dating. 

He is comfortable in this quiet spot. 

There are no plans other than to sit, read, and drink his Turkish coffee. 

Maybe take a stroll later along the Seine. 

Visit Notre Dame. 

Contemplate the strange reality of this new life he's created for himself in the cool, quiet presence of it's interior. 

Forgo his usual plans to conquer the known universe. 

How long has it been? 

To know this kind of quiet bliss? 

The answer doesn't surprise him in the least. 

Never. 

Clark first appeared six months into his Paris exile, wearing old flannel and faded denim. Like some forlorn wraith keeping vigil as he ate his breakfast and read his papers. 

Haunting a life long gone. 

It's not Superman who shows up every Sunday without fail, and it's certainly not the famous Clark Kent. 

Who is this stranger, then? 

This shadow? 

This long lost ghost who waits? 

Lex ignores him. 

Finishes the last of his coffee. 

The day is waiting for him with not a forgone conclusion in sight. He is almost giddy with the knowledge. Reminds himself, again, that this sense of peace is a sacred thing. Hard won against all takers. 

There are no wars to be fought with his enemy today. 

No battles to be engaged. 

He stands for a moment, rubbing his hand across the back of his head. Feels the weight of the small stone resting in his other. 

Meditates on where his thoughts are taking him. 

No wars. 

No battles. 

Only possibilities. 

Choices. 

The here and now of a man who waits with the patience of Job. 

The Alpha to his Omega. 

Forever, and ever, Amen. 

And with a deep sigh decides to acknowledge the presence of the individual who has plagued his days, and haunted his nights for twenty years. 

To look his enemy in the eye. 

It is by far the hardest thing he has ever has done. Can only begin to imagine how hard it must be for Clark. 

No red cape. 

No glasses and rumpled Oscar Madison slouch to hide behind. 

Only his past, present, and a long forgotten future gazing back at him across the chasm of a Paris street. 

And for one infinite moment, on a quiet Sunday morning, time stands still for two men. 

There is only the truth, now. 

Because all of his secrets have been stripped away. Secrets that were ever only as deep as a river in Smallville. Given up like offerings to the talisman he has carried with him for two decades 

Amazing what time has taught him. 

Perhaps Clark is just as ready to give up the lies worn smooth like the stone in his hand. 

He finds himself crossing the street and stopping in front of the man he has not spoken to other than in the volcanic heat of rage in almost that long. 

And surprises himself by smiling. 

He sees so many things in the green eyes looking back at him. 

So much pain. 

So much hope. 

He reaches out, and gently takes one of the large hands jammed into jeans so tightly that the pockets are threatening to split from the stress and very gently smoothes the fisted fingers open with his. 

"Can it be that hard, Clark? To let them go?" 

And lays his stone in the palm of Clark's hand. 


End file.
